


your bird can scream

by sclerant (rufusrant)



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: John POV, M/M, paris 1961, very very implied sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23429029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/sclerant
Summary: John and Paul get a surprise visitor in their Paris hotel room.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	your bird can scream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IDONTGETNOSLEEPCAUSEOFYALL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IDONTGETNOSLEEPCAUSEOFYALL/gifts).



> a story for my coolest, cheeriest friend! <3 
> 
> thank you [blobfish_miffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy) for beta-ing. you're a literal lifesaver.

It was a dark and stormy night, and Paul had drunk the last of their posh French beer. He was gone before his head hit the bed, the middle of it, so John just levered the quilt to fit them just so. 

It was still storming when Paul kicked him in the balls. 

“Fuck you,” John rasped weakly. 

“JOHN,” said Paul, kneeling over him, “Somethin’s in the room.”

“What?”

“Somethin’s in here with us! I dunno what it is!”

John glanced around. Everything in their room was dark shapes and watercolour lights and DAMN, Paul was _TROUSERLESS._ His tighty-whities glared at John almost like God on a good day.

A sudden breeze slammed their window into the wall. Paul screamed thinly. 

“You’ve gone _bonkers_ , Macca, ‘s only the wind!”

“I’m not BONKERS,” Paul screamed bonkers-ly. “I REALLY SAW SOMETHIN’. I’m not drunk.”

John nodded. “An’ I’m the Queen of Fuckers.”

“Well then yer majesty, our kingdom’s under _siege_ _!”_

(OUR KINGDOM.)

John chuckled. _“Our_ kingdom?—”

Something then whipped through the gap between their noses. John and Paul shrieked themselves right off the bed, seizing each other’s arms in their tumble to the floor. The darkest shape of all, small and very much real now, flew smack-bang-smack-cRASH around their room like a pinball. It had wings. IT THEN LANDED ON THEIR BLANKETS. 

John and Paul screeched. What little of Paris’ lights fell through the window in a white stripe. John headbutted Paul in the chest as he screeched some more—

“Um, John,” Paul said anti-climatically. “ ‘s a pigeon.”

“.....d’you think it bites?”

“..........birds don’t have teeth.”

“.............................that so?” John said, pretending he knew that. He squinted at the pigeon. For all it was worth, it was _still_ a dark blob of shit that he was way too blind to see. It was a dark blob that better _not_ have taken a shit on their bed. It was a fuckin’ gear bed. They’d thrown away Spain because of how comfy it was. And in an awful cropper, Paul had stuck his camera under the sheets and it was impossible to free. 

Paul nudged him back to earth. “ ‘s _starin’_ at me.”

“What else is new?”

The pigeon then made a gross cooing noise. Paul scooted back on his arse to try and stand, his face between a cringe and a snort. And on his feet, he sighed. The rain roared outside in Paris. 

“Shoo,” Paul hissed. Absolutely nothing happened.

“Shoo!” Paul tried again, now with both hands. “Goodbye!”

The pigeon tilted its head at him.

“SHOO,” Paul yelled, inching wearily closer to the bird, so unlike him with the ones back home. John swallowed his smirk. 

“SHOOOOOOOOOO!!!” Paul was becoming a bird himself, the wild flip-flapping of his arms. “Go! Get! Scat! _John!”_

“What?” John jumped.

“I would _appreciate_ it if ye lent me a hand!”

John slapped Paul’s hand so loud the pigeon burst off in a smattering flurry of feathers. It flew right into the wooden beams near the ceiling, still staring at them the way all pigeons do. He stared (squinted) back, and flipped the bird at the bird. 

“Fuck _you!”_

A crack of thunder struck the skies. Paul shut the window and his hand came away wet. He sighed as he wiped himself off the front of his shirt (jESUS) and with his trouserless arse crawled back into bed. 

“What,” he said when John stared. “It’ll drown out there.”

 _“Or,”_ John crossed his arms smugly. “Ye jus’ miss havin’ a bird in yer room.”

 _“Miss??”_ Paul laughed, turning, eyes now lowered like _come hither._ “Ye say that like I ain’t ‘ad one in years.”

He and Dot had a fight before they left. John stands his ground. “Haven’t you.”

“Haven’t _you,”_ Paul’s arm’s tucked under his head, contemplatively sleepy. “Haven’t I—”

The pigeon suddenly shat on his head. 

Paul’s eyes widened. John’s mouth fell open. He felt said mouth twitch into a grin and clamped it right under his hand. He squinted up at the dark as Paul gingerly crawled out of bed, spitting image of the Munch scream.

“You were sayin’?” John whispered. 

* * *

_Happy twenty-one, use it well!_

_Happy happy from France, we’re chasing a bird._ Their cases lay open on the floor and were then shut tight, fearing another white shower. John rescued his bowler hat and tried the lights, but the bulbs were dead in the storm. Paul emerged from the shower with his sleep trousers on (oh), but was now shirtless (ooh) and had tied his washcloth round like a scarf _(ooh la la!)._ He squinted at the pigeon (STILL over the bed) vengefully.

“You wanna do the honours,” John said, hand on the window latch, “Or will I?”

Paul squinted at _him._

“Where then?” John pointed at the shower. “Surely not in there?? What if it shits on my soap?”

“I was thinkin’ maybe we— _your_ soap????? I thought that was _my_ soap!” 

“Oh! No wonder you’ve been smellin’ so good!” 

“WHAT.”

“Nuthin’!” John brought his hat-brim over his brows. “She’s not even _pretty.”_

The pigeon squawked in response. 

“Now you’ve made ‘er cross,” Paul hissed, slurred. 

“Well if _you_ weren’t such a bloody altruist Macca, you wouldn’t have had to wash yer brains out.”

“An’ if _YOU’D_ jus’ locked the windows before bed _like I told ye to,_ we wouldn’t _‘ave_ a bird in our room!”

Evil Pigeon _cawed._ John swore to God it did, backing up into the radiator.

“aNYWAY as I was saying,” said Paul, “I was thinkin’ maybe we should jus’ let it out into the—” 

John stared. Maybe because Paul was drunk or _he_ was drunk, and Paul’s wet hair was sticking up like a wet cat’s. He looked so much like a big hunk o’ wet Elvis.

“ ‘ey,” Paul suddenly said into his ear. “Ya _home,_ Johnny?”

 _“WHAT,”_ said John. Evil Pigeon beat a storm with its wings. 

“I SAID MAYBE WE SHOULD LET IT OUT INTO THE CORRIDOR,” Paul pointed confidently at the bathroom door. A moment later he corrected himself. “It won’t be in ‘ere an’ it won’t drown.”

Paul burst his travel case open and retrieved his own hat, tipping the brim to mirror John’s. And a torch lit up in his hand. 

Evil Pigeon took off instantly, flitting beam-to-beam and wall-to-wall. John ran for their door and threw it open, flooding the room with drizzling wind. The torch lit up the doorway, but nothing went through. 

They’d scared it. 

“C’mon birdy,” Paul waved his torch oh so diplomatically. “Nice French birdy—”

John leapt onto the bed. His hat came off. He swatted at the dark above him, tip-toe, his hat a very improvised ice-cream spoon.

“...what are you doing??” Paul gawked at him. 

Then he gawked a last one, because John cAUGHT THE BIRD IN HIS HAT. It squawked and sQUAWKED like Mimi when he forgot to arrange the dishes in alphabetical order. He was so stunned he flung his hat at Paul’s face. 

“wHAT THE FUCK—”

“Quick, Paul!” John jumped up and down. “gET IT OUT!!” 

Poor Dastardly Evil Captured Pigeon made thrashing noises. Paul sprinted to the door and tossed out John’s entire hat. He screeched an apology at the pigeon, hesitated, and then screeched it again in French. The door slammed and bolted. 

John exhaled in utter relief. Back to their vacation and beer and enjoying shirtless Macca, who now strode back up to the foot of their bed. His hat was perched like a crown. 

“It’s out,” he announced as if John were fully blind. And deaf. But probably the former, because John could _definitely_ see him. Paul stretched like someone fifty years older than him. John allowed himself a grin. He was still grinning even when he fell over the side of the bed.

“Oh my god, John!” Hairy arms brushed under his nose as he’s turned around. “Are you alright???”

A dodgy heat pricked his lip. John squirmed, but Paul didn’t blink. Whatever queer quip John’d had in his mind had fallen out of his head. This sort of thing would’ve never happened in Spain. Paul shook him lightly. 

“Can ya see me?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Jesus, ye should’ve watched it,” Paul chided as his thumb ran over John’s lip— 

PAUL TOUCHED HIS BLOODY LIP. Literally.

John winced again.

“Don’t worry, it’s jus’ grazed,” said Paul. “We gotta wash it an’ let it be for abit—”

“How long’s abit?” 

Paul mused over this. “Ye should be fine in the morning,” he started. “But if it still stings, like, we should get you some bread. Really soft bread…..(sword fight with the baguettes they’d bought for tea)....or we could split another banana milkshake. Y’know?”

Oh, he knows. The hottest thing on the menu. In the café Paul howled laughing as he chewed through his straw, because pretending to be posh got so daft. And when they’d both been drunk, he sunk his teeth into John’s shoulder and stayed there. 

He'd woken John up that next day kissing it. A bird had hooted outside their sunny window. Twenty-one.

It’s all downhill from here. 

“John,” Paul said presently, gently slapping his cheek. “Does yer head hurt? Can ye still see me? ”

John licked his lips. “Course I can.”

**Author's Note:**

> stay safe folks! wash your hands!


End file.
